


Case File: Batman

by windofderange



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alternate Reality, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Gen, Pyschology, Verbal Abuse, batman is the villain, domestic abuse, everyone knows Bruce Wayne is Batman, everything is normal, positive portrayals of psychiatry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-23 23:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10729827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windofderange/pseuds/windofderange
Summary: What seems more likely?  One city that houses an ever-increasing number of super-powered super villians, or just one crazy billionaire who owns everything and everyone?





	1. Gotham City

Gotham feels dark.  It struck me as I stretched my legs, emerging from the train car into a slow, long march across the station.  It was a sunny, cold autumn morning, but as I peered out into the cityscape, it occurred to me that little of the dappled light had managed to break through the thick forest of cement and steel, leaving the recesses of the city dark.

It was only late October, but a sharp, bitter wind twisted through the train station, stinging my bare hands as they grasped the plastic handles of my suitcases.  I suddenly regretted not bringing more winter clothes.  I had been invited to Gotham out of the blue by the mayor, to take over a vacancy in their prison hospital.  The invitation had come with few details, including no end date.  The salary was specified, however, and impressive.  Even if it hadn’t been, though, the city’s peculiar history probably would have been enough to lure me to it.

I scanned the line of expressionless men in black suits and caps with placards at the edge of the station.  Sure enough, one held a sign reading “H. Quinzel.”

“I’m Doctor Quinzel,” I announced, stopping a pace before him and releasing one of my suitcases to offer out my hand.  He shook it for a millisecond before reaching for my bag, gesturing at the other.

“Welcome to Gotham, Dr. Quinzel.  The mayor is waiting to meet with you.”

“Alright,” I said, releasing the other suitcase.

“He’s rented an apartment for you on Central.  It’s about two blocks from the City Council chambers.  I’ve been instructed to bring your things over there, after I drop you.”

He reached out for the beige leather case hanging from my shoulder, but I pulled away.  “If I’m meeting with the mayor this morning, I’d rather hold on to this.”

“Suit yourself,” he replied, adding a barely audible “Ma’am,” as he swung open the door to a sleek, black Roles.

We coasted through the city in silence.  I stared out the window, tracking the wide, major streets as they diverted and broke into suburbs and slums.  I had read that Gotham had a higher-than-average difference in salaries for a major, US city, and signs of that reality showed in the broken storefronts and cracked pavements of the airport-adjacent suburbs.  In the distance, the glistening heights of the cityscape sparkled in the mid-day sun.

“Which one of those is Wayne Tower?” I asked.

“The oblong one, Ma’am,” the driver replied, pointing out the window.  “That squatter one there, that’s Nygma Enterprises.”

The two great giants of Gotham.  Their buildings towered over the rest of the city, matching what I had read of their creators. Wayne Industries was housed in an art-deco monstrosity, obviously based on the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, a massive steel W sparkling in the sun.  The more modernly-styled Nygma Enterprises building represented its youth, the recent startup now rivaling the classic giant.  The Nygma building showed elements of modern ‘green’ revision, as well, greenery lining the upper walls and terraces, the building painted a light-reflecting light beige versus the Wayne Building’s traditional grey stone.

We sunk back into silence as we passed through a toll booth and into the dense forest of skyscrapers.  I found myself taking a sudden breath as the noonday sun vanished and the air turned dark. 

We rounded the corner of a massive, six-lane road, past a replicated Acropolis.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Gotham Central Library, ma’am.  It’s supposed to be a reproduction of some Greek temple.”

“The Acropolis,” I replied, “It’s in Athens.”

He harrumphed a reply.

“This one’s quite impressive.”

“The Waynes commissioned it, back in the 50s.”

I nodded, sinking back into my seat.  The Waynes.  I knew the name like Carnegie or Rockefeller, something you see pasted on monuments and walls, nearly synonymous with ‘old money.’

“The Waynes built a lot in Gotham?” I inquired.

My driver grunted another affirmative.  “Seems like nearly every building downtown’s got their name on it.  That or ol’ Cobblepot.  Or Arkham, but seems like he only built prisons or looney bins.”

“Unfortunately those things can be as needed in a community as libraries or symphonies,” I added, staring off into the city.

“No disrespect, ma’am,” he quickly added, “I asked the Mayor about you.  Says you can help clean up Gotham.  Would definitely appreciate it if you can.”

I blushed, words failing me.  My work was rarely called “clean up,” but the sincerity in his voice struck a chord.

“I shall do my best.”

He cruised through a long green light and turned in towards the City Council chambers, another neo-Classical building, this one vaguely reminiscent of an ancient temple, Corinthian columns and wide walkways surrounded a massive stone interior.  The driver coasted around the wide, curved driveway and to the door.

“Mayor’s office is on the third floor, ma’am,” he announced as a doorman appeared.  “I’ll be dropping off your luggage, and then swing back around to collect you.”

“Right,” I said, nodding softly.  “Well, thank you very much for looking after me, and for the conversation.”

“Um, yeah,” he replied slowly, his voice hitching a bit.  “No problem, ma’am.”

The doorman offered out a hand, lifting me out of the car.  He was easily over six feet, with a long, sagging face and heavy eyes.

“Welcome to the Gotham City Council chambers, Dr. Quinzel,” he said in a cool, practiced tone.  “The Mayor is expecting you.”

He ushered me inside.  The center of the building was a massive, marble rotunda, enshrined by two massive, marble staircases.  The air echoed with footfalls as people rushed from place to place.  The doorman directed me towards the metal detector.

“The mayor’s office is on the third floor,” he said, “Just follow the spiral staircases up, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I replied, stripping off my coat and bag and dropping them onto the conveyer belt.  I passed through, grabbing my things and starting up the slick, marble steps, my footsteps seeming to ricochet around me.  I made it to the third floor, huffing for air. 


	2. The Penguin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley meets with the Mayor, and learns the full extent of her intended position in Gotham.

A pair of glass doors stood before me, bearing a crest of a banner and shield and ‘Office of the Mayor’ in broad, elegant lettering.

I pressed through, being greeted by a pretty young woman behind a mahogany horseshoe.

She smiled warmly at me, saying, “You must be Dr. Quinzel.”

Apparently everyone in the building knew I was coming.

“Yes, thank you,” I said as she reached for my coat.

“The Mayor is running a little late,” she started. “Would you mind having a seat here for a few minutes?”

“Of course, that’s fine,” I replied, glancing at the collection of short, beige leather seats.  Instead, I turned to the mirror on the wall.  The damp and the wind had left one half of my long, blond hair bunched against my scalp.  I ran my fingers through it, managing to get it to something approximating flat, and pulled it into a tight bun, thinking for the thousandth time that I really should just get it cut.  More professional.  I sighed, laughing at myself, studying my reflection.  In my sleep-addled state that morning, rushing to catch the train, I had managed to dress all in black, a black suit and black sweater.  Now I grumbled at my appearance – the black clothes, pale skin and blond hair made me look like an old domino clown.  I refreshed my lipstick and blush, trying to convince myself I looked anything but haggard.

“Dr. Quinzel,” a sharp voice declared.  I turned to see a figure emerging from one of the far offices.

I had read up on Gotham and its politics before I arrived, and only that research and my training prevented me from reacting to the figure who approached me.  He was barely three feet tall, with thick limbs and a squat face.  Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.  The product of two old Gotham families, I knew Mr. Cobblepot had been involved in politics for nearly his entire life, first in the City Commissioner’s office, and then as mayor.  I had read online that his sharp tongue and austere policies had led some of his political opponents to give him a deeply inappropriate nickname – the Penguin.  As he approached me, I couldn’t help but notice why it had stuck.  He was dressed in a fine, silk black suit, with a white shirt and creamy white scarf thrown over his shoulders. He walked with a cane, rather than the more common arm braces, and the single balance point threw out his walk, given him a bit of a waddle.  I guessed that the clothes and cane were symbols of his breeding, an attempt to use his class privilege to overshadow his disability.  But nevertheless, the waterfowl comparison hung in my mind.

“Mr. Mayor,” I said, taking his hand.

“Please, call me Oswald,” he replied warmly.

“Harley,” I responded.

He turned to the girl at the desk, “Molly, could we have some coffee, please?”

“Of course, Oswald,” she replied.

He led me back to his office, an impressive room filled with antique furniture and framed art.  My eye caught on what appeared to be an original Miro over his desk.  The Penguin had breeding, and obviously didn’t let anyone forget that.

We made light chit-chat until the coffee appeared.  He asked about my trip, how long it had taken me to come down from Metropolis, how the weather had been.  I reported on the warm Indian summer and my foolishness for not bringing a better winter coat, leading him to drum off the best women’s designer labels in town.  He was just finishing the list when Molly appeared with the coffee tray, handing the Mayor his before turning for instructions from me.

“Light, no sugar,” I said, “Thank you.”

Returning to the Mayor, I added, “Thanks for the tip - I’ll have to check out a couple of stores this weekend, before it gets too cold.”  Mentally, I noted the names, guessing that they were all well out of my price range.  But it was certainly nice of the Mayor to presume us to be equals on that front.

As Molly exited, Cobblepot sat back in his chair, cup and saucer balanced on the armrest, and fixed me in an easy stare.

“So then, Harley.  What do you know about Gotham?”

I smiled warmly, silently reading his body language and gauging my answer against it.  Presumably, from his calculated smile, we had moved on from the polite introductions bit of the morning to the more serious section of the meeting.

“I know it’s one of the largest cities in the country,” I started, “Home to two of the largest American-made corporations and some of the oldest industrial families in the nation.  And I know it has one of the nation’s oldest high security mental health centers.”

“Anything else?” he asked warmly.

“And I know it’s home to one of the oldest local ‘superheros,’ Gotham’s Caped Crusader.”

The Mayor simply smiled, sipping his coffee.  “And what’s your opinion of the Batman?”

“I’m not a big supporter of the whole ‘superhero’-vigilante movement, as I expect you know from my work,” I replied.  “If you’re asking me for a clinical analysis, though, I would need to actually meet with him.  Has he been brought into custody?”

“No, he has not,” Cobblepot replied, finishing his cup.  He paused to replace it on the table.

I sighed, taking a stab.  “Then, with all due respect, Mr. Mayor … Oswald, why was I invited here?  This is the third psychiatric care facility I’ve worked with - the other two were city institutions, as well, but I never met with the Mayor, and I certainly wasn’t recruited directly by his office.”

Cobblepot smiled, his expression as warm as it was calculating.  I couldn’t help but be impressed.  I could see how he had been so successful as a politician, despite his disability.  That was one hell of a poker face.

“The Batman has always been something of a … dividing line for local politicians.  Some people love him, others think he’s a nuisance.  The public is about the same.  But he’s …”

He paused, apparently considering his words.  But there was a slight hitch in his voice.

“Lately, he’s started to be more of a problem.  There have a couple of incidents.  Personally, I would like to see him taken off the streets, and I think what’s happened is enough to do that.  But unfortunately one of his biggest supporters has always been Police Commissioner Gordon.”

“The Police Commissioner thinks a vigilante is a good thing?” I asked incredulously.

“Gordon thinks the Cape Crusader keeps crime down, that he’s a deterrent.  I disagree, but at the moment, if I want the Batman off the streets, I’d have to start a campaign against him.”

“And you’re worried about losing political capital doing it?  He’s that popular?”

“Yes,” Cobblepot said slowly, his voice hitching again.  “I need something more substantial than just ‘I think he’s a nuisance.’”

“So you called a shrink.”

Cobblepot smiled again, this time sincerely, the edges of his eyes crinkling.  “You do yourself a disservice, Dr. Quinzel.  I happen to know for a fact that you are held in quite high regard by members of your field.”

I smiled at that response.  “Thank you.  But that still doesn’t answer what exactly I would be doing here.”

“In the first instance, I am interested in exactly what we discussed on the phone, taking over the vacancy at the Arkhan facility.”

“Taking over Dr. Crane’s position,” I added.

“That’s correct,” he said, nodding.  He offered me another cup of coffee before pouring his own.  “I take it you’re familiar with Dr. Crane?”

“Professionally, yes.  We had met at a few conferences.  We also served as expert witnesses on the same case, at one point, so ended up spending a few days together doing trial prep.”

“Two psychologists for one criminal - it must have been one hell of a case.”

“Nothing terribly scandalous,” I replied, feeling my words taking on a clinical tone, “Just a difference of expertise.  Dr. Crane specialized in research on drugs of abuse and the effects of substance abuse.  Most of my research is on early-life trauma and abuse.  Unfortunately both were relevant in this case.”

I took a sip of coffee, adding, “I was sorry to hear of his passing.  I would be very honored to take over his charges.”

“He was doing good work at Arkham.  We were all very sorry to lose him.”

I took another sip of coffee, allowing the warm liquid to seep slowly through me.  Finally, I added, “But you said ‘in the first instance.’  What else do you expect me to do?”

“As you said, Harley, the Batman is a Gotham institution.  I have no doubt you will encounter him, or at least his exploits, while you are here.  I would like your opinion on him, whether or not you consider him a threat to this city or to public safety.”

“And you would prefer that I find him a threat to public safety?”

I stared at the Mayor, fixing him in a practiced, serious expression.  He simply smiled.  “No.  I have read up on your research, and I respect your opinion.  If you agree with me that the Batman is a threat, that’s wonderful.  If not, then we’ve still found an outstanding candidate to take over Dr. Crane’s work.”

I sighed, feeling a weight lifting.  “Alright then.  When do I begin?”

He smiled, eeking out a small laugh of genuine relief.  “As soon as you like.  I’ve taken the liberty of renting an apartment for you in the Orpheum building, over on Central.  You will also be inheriting Dr. Crane’s office at Arkham.  I take it you met Bill, your driver.  He’s at your disposal.  Gotham is not always the safest place to travel.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I replied.  “Bill has been very helpful already.  I would quite like to see my new offices and meet the staff at Arkham as soon as possible.”

“Then I’d suggest you start there,” he said, rising to his feet, “I expect Bill will be waiting for you.  Anything you wish to speak to me about, just call my office, and Molly will schedule something.”

“Thank you very much, Oswald,” I said, offering out my hand.

He shook it, ushering me to the door.  “Welcome aboard, Harley.”


	3. Arkham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley formally takes over Dr. Crane's position at Arkham.

The Arkham High Security Psychiatric Hospital stands on a small island across a still, dark canal from Gotham proper.  The structure is distinctly 19th century, the massive, converted Victorian mansion surrounded by a high, wrought-iron gate, the metal bars dug into the bare stone cliff face.  The massive, hilly garden was covered with scraggly trees and moss-covered boulders, all chipped and carved with the messages of a thousand former residents.

I couldn’t help but shiver as I stared up as the faded, brick exterior of the main hospital.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Bill grumbled from the front seat.

“If it helps, it does me, too,” I replied.

Unfortunately my knowledge of Arkham’s history did little to quell the discomfort rising up inside of me.  The hospital dated from the disgustingly disturbed early years of psychiatric care, and its founder, Dr. Amadeus Arkham, had been a practitioner of all kinds of cruel and inhuman ‘treatments.’  He harbored a dark resentment for ‘the criminally-minded,’ and was apparently willing to submit his patients to any number of horrific tortures in the name of medicine.  I shuddered, trying to block out the thoughts of what atrocities might have been perpetrated here in the name of my field.  My mind fluttered back to the Batman - perhaps it’s not so surprising that Gotham should produce such a famed vigilante, as whoever he is, he must have grown up in the shadow of this ‘austere’ institution, claiming to dole out justice, no matter the cost.

The car purred to a stop at the guard’s gate, and Bill rolled down my window.  A thick, muscle-bound man in a pressed, blue uniform approached me, clipboard in one hand, the other resting on the barrel of the taser hanging from his belt.

“Good afternoon,” I said warmly, “I’m Dr. Harley Quinzel.  I’ll be taking over Dr. Crane’s position.”

He nodded, releasing the taser to check off something on the clipboard.  “Welcome to Arkham, Dr. Quinzel.  The Mayor’s Office called, said you were on your way over.  You’ll need to go to the security office and get your access card first thing.  It’s in the main building, just in front of us there.”

He pointed to a tall, arched entryway with a sweeping driveway.

“I’ll pull ‘round,” Bill said as the guard waved us in.  “And then see about parking.”

“You don’t have to stay,” I replied, “I can always call when I’m ready to go home.”

Bill nodded, swallowing hard as he cast another glance up at the mansion.  “If that wouldn’t be too much trouble for you…”

“No trouble at all,” I replied, “There’s no reason for you to hang around the hospital all afternoon.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” he replied, coasting to a stop just before a wide, wooden door, marked by a series of concentric wooden arches.

I slipped out of the car and he sped off, back across the grey cement bridge, disappearing into the shadow of the city.  I pulled back the heavy, metal door, and was suddenly engulfed in warm air, instantly reddening my face and speeding my heart.

The inside was all sterile white - tile walls and floors, white ceilings, buzzing fluorescent lights.  At least some elements of modern therapy shown through - art projects hung on the wall, massive canvasses of family portraits, colorful abstracts, even a few collages, polaroid pictures set against shiny magazine clippings.   A metal detector, x-ray, and security desk stood immediately before me, the guard on duty slowly rising to his feet on my appearance.

“Good afternoon,” I said, “My name is Dr. Harley Quinzel.  I’ll be taking over for Dr. Crane.”

The man behind the desk nodded.  “Welcome to Arkham, Dr. Quinzel.  We’ll need to take your picture and set you up with a security badge.  All of the doors from this point forward are kept locked.  Just swipe the badge over the lock to open.

He ushered me behind the desk, and pulled down a white screen to cover the already white wall.

“Just look straight ahead, that’s good,” he directed, adjusting the camera on the back of his computer.  “Is that okay?”

He gestured to the picture, awaiting my feedback.  I looked at the pale figure in the photo.  “Seems fine,” I replied with a shrug.

He fiddled with the computer before inserting a blank, white card into the printer.  It screeched as it ran off my ID.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the card and clip he offered me.

“Dr. Leland said you would be taking over Dr. Crane’s office?” he added.

“That sounds fine.”

“We sent his personal effects to his house, but it still has some of his work stuff in there - files and such.”

“That’s alright - I’ll be taking over his cases.  That will save me having to order up the files later.”

The security guard nodded, his movements short and sharp.  Whether from anxiety or just habit, though, I couldn’t decide.

“His office is on the third floor, along with Dr. Leland’s and the staff lounge.  The second floor has the staff canteen.  They’ll also send up food if you can’t make it to the set meals.  Just dial 18 on your phone.”

“Oh, that would be great,” I said, feeling my stomach churning on nothing but coffee and shortbreads from the mayor’s office.

“The patients’ wing is down the corridor.  Badges have to be worn at all times.”

I nodded, the air of the conversation turning serious.

“Dr. Leland can get you caught up on the schedules and such.  Just take the elevator around the corner.”

“Thank you very much, Mr…”

“Cash,” he replied.  “Aaron Cash.  I’ll normally be at the front desk during the day.  Just dial 00 from any phone to reach security.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Cash.”

I marched easily to the elevator, which also required access by my newly-minted ID card.  Thankful the small, grey box blinked red to green, the elevator clunking to life.  The elevator itself was an old-fashioned thing, with exposed edges and thick, brass buttons.  I half-expected Droopy Dog to appear beside me as it lumbered up to the third floor.  The doors parted with a screech.

Even the offices smelled of hospital, the unmistakable scent of antiseptic and laundry.  As long as I’d worked in medicine, it still made me hair stand on end.  The wooden doors with frosted windows were labeled with frosted lettering.  I rapped on Dr. Leland’s as I passed, but the lights were down and no response came.  I continued on to the one labeled “Dr. Jonathan Crane,” knocking out of habit before slipping open the door.

Inside the space was all tranquil blues and pale greys, one wall a deep navy with a framed photo of the Arkham estate, dated 1908.  Bankers boxes of files were piled on the leather seats and sofas.  A small desk sat against the wall, already decked out with a phone and ports for a laptop.  I set up my computer, calling down for some food as I scrolled through my email.  My old supervisor in Metropolis had emailed for an update - I bit my lip, debating how to respond.  

The food appeared, temporarily chasing away the hospital smell - hot tomato soup, half a turkey sandwich on thick, warm bread, and a large cup of hot tea.  I let the warmth seep into me, feeling some of the tension of the trainride melt away.  Halfway through the food, I started on the files.  Dr. Crane’s notes were clean and neat - a registry of patients sat in one box, giving the schedule of their one-on-one and group sessions and brief notes on their background.  The schedule looked reasonable enough - I would try to keep it if I could, to reduce the disorientation of the transition as much as possible.

A rap on the open door drew me away from my reading.  I glanced up to see a tall, slender woman with short, black hair and warm, brown skin, dressed in a soft, beige suit standing in the doorway, examining the room.

“You must be Dr. Quinzel,” she said slowly.

“Yes,” I said, getting to my feet and offering out my hand.  “Dr. Leland?”

“Please, call me Joan,” she replied, shaking my hand.

“Harley.”

“So how are you finding things?” she asked, coming slowly into the room.

I grabbed a box of files to clear a seat for her, depositing it in the corner with a huff.  “Oh, you know - it’s always overwhelming at first.  I think I’ll feel like I have a better handle on things once I’ve met the patients, can start putting faces to the files.”

She nodded, waiting for me to return to my desk.  “Well, if you have any questions…”

“I’m sure I will, thanks.  Right now I’m just trying to read through everything.  I’d like to keep everyone to Dr. Crane’s schedule, if I can…”

“That’s a good plan.  Jon… Dr. Crane actually spent a lot of time on the schedule, testing out of group dynamics and such.  It would be good to keep it up, if we can.”

“I’m sorry,” I added, “I know it must be hard to have someone new step in so suddenly.”

She sighed, a small smile appearing.  “Honestly, it’s bittersweet.  We were short-handed even with Jon, so in that way, it’s great to have someone new.  And, I mean, from your other work, I’m sure it will be great to have you on board.  But yes, we haven’t really had much time to even process what happened, let alone mourn.”

“Well,” I said gently, “If there’s anything I can do to make it easier, please let me know.”

She nodded, smiling wider.  “Thanks.  I think the staff are handling it okay.  The patients - that’s harder.  There’s been so much change, it’s hard to pin down what’s affecting them.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

I paused, starting to speak, and stopping myself.  Taking a breath, I asked, “Sorry, I don’t mean to be morbid, but could I ask - what happened?  The newspapers in Metropolis just said it was an accident.  Was it a car crash?”

She shook her head.  “No, it was an accident, but not like that.  It was monoxide poisoning, in his house.  He went home, and when he didn’t call in or come in the next day, we sent one of the residents to collect him.  Jon did a lot of … outside research - sometimes he’d stay up all night and then crash and miss work.  So we just assumed.  Poor Bob, the resident we sent …”

“That’s terrible,” I said, taking a sudden breath.

She nodding, breathing hard, her eyes sparkling slightly with tears. 

“Thank you for being so candid with me,” I added.  “It’s obviously taken a heavy toll on everyone - understandably so.  It helps for me to know a little bit of what I’m walking in to.”

She nodded, glancing at the boxes of files.  She started to speak, but stopped herself.

“Well,” she said finally, “I should let you get back to it.”

“Okay.”

She cast another glance at the boxes of files, stepping slowly for the door.  As she grasped the brass handle, she turned back, saying, “Sorry, this may seem really strange, and I’m sorry if it does, but since you’ll be going through his files anyways…”

She paused, taking a heavy breath, the sadness cutting through her words. 

“Dr. Crane’s outside research, some of it, it was about Batman.”

“Oh?” I prompt, waiting for her to continue.

“It was a bit of a … personal fascination.  It may not matter, but I thought … there’s been scuttlebutt that you’re working on a similar project with the Mayor.”

“That’s more or less correct.  Thank you for letting me know - it should prove very useful.”

She nodded, her face pinching inward.  There was obviously something else on her mind, but she simply nodded and offered another weak salutation, disappearing down the hall.


	4. Case File: Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley starts to investigate the Batman.

I sorted through the boxes, returning the patient files to the grey file cabinet behind the desk.  The A to Z folders were already full with one final box resting on the far end of the leather couch.  I sat down beside it, pulling out the files.

The file registry read ‘Case File #02317: Batman’ in Dr. Crane’s now familiar small, neat hand.  Case files of interviews with victims and witnesses filled nearly the entire box, the rest made up of newspaper clippings and police reports.  I flipped through the newspaper clippings - most were gaudy spectacle, full of silly observations and excessive puns: “Capped Crusader Captures Creeper,” “Batman’s Back!,” “a towering figure in black,” “a man on a mission,” ad nauseam.  I turned back to Dr. Crane’s notes.  Apparently he had been following the Batman vigilante almost since his first appearance.  He included several notes to himself to bring aspects of his research to the mayor and the police commissioner.  

His analysis was vague, based largely on observation - as far as I could tell, the Batman had never been detained by authorities, so Dr. Crane would have had no opportunities to interview him directly - but seemed sound enough.  Paranoia.  Narcissism.  Perhaps a history of abuse.  Potential connection to law enforcement.  Impressive level of intelligence, develops his own weapons, deploys his own strategies.  Probably access to personal income or wealth, based on material evidence - his weapons and clothes weren’t cheap, appeared to be custom made, and were regularly repaired or replaced.

Reading through Dr. Crane’s notes, I was slowly struck by something else, some lingering question, like invisible marginalia.  It was as though Crane knew the identity of the vigilante.  But there was no direct mention of a name or even likely candidates.

I scanned through the interviews with victims and witnesses - the same invisible question hung in the air.  They spoke in code, the language reminiscent of abuse victims, terrified of being overheard or misinterpreted.

I lingered on Crane’s interviews with a young gang leader.  He had been attacked by the Batman three times, being dragged and left bound at the police station.  One attack resulted in a broken wrist; another left him concussed.  

I pulled out my phone, searching for the Gotham police department’s contacts page.  I called the non-emergency line, listening to the long recording reminding people in an emergency to dial 911.

Finally, the phone rang, a heavy, gruff voice answering, “Gotham City Police Department, Sergeant Peak.”

“Good afternoon, Sergeant.  My name is Harley Quinzel - I’ve just taken over Dr. Jon Crane’s position at Arkham.  I’m trying to follow up on one of his case files - there’s a young man who was detained by your department several times, that I would like to contact for an interview.  His name is Jack Kane?”

“Kane?” Sergeant Peak barked, “You’re in luck.  We’ve got him in custody.  Just about to release him.  You get down here before 5, you can meet with him.”

“He’s there?” I asked, barely managing to hide my surprise.  Glancing down at the case file, I hesitated, wondering what kind of condition he’d be in.  “I’ll be over shortly.”

I called Bill, quickly gathering up my things.  

The Gotham Police Department was another neoclassic monstrosity a few blocks from the City Council Chambers, Corinthian columns marking the entrance, accentuated by large brass lettering and a massive brass seal.  Bill dropped me at the door, reminding me again to call him for a pickup.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was worried I wouldn’t make it out again.

Inside, the station was full of noise and activity.  Phones rang, people shouted orders across the room.  A few people in handcuffs sat at the desks.  A young officer with deep tan skin and a long, jet black ponytail stood behind the ‘reception’ desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked sharply as I approached.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply, my voice falling into a practiced, even tone.  I pull out my Arkham credentials and hand them over, saying, “My name is Harley Quinzel.  I’m taking over for Dr. Crane at Arkham.  I called about speaking to a Jack Kane?”

She nodded, saying, “Yes, Dr. Quinzel.  We were expecting you.  Kane is in interrogation room 2.  I can take you back.”

“Thank you …”

“Office Mulcahey,” she said.  “You can call me Rebecca.”

“Harley,” I replied, offering her my hand as she led us through the short, wooden gate into the main offices.  She shook it, rolling her eyes.

“The Sergeant on the phone didn’t give me a lot of details,” I continued, “What was Kane detained for?”

“Assault,” she replied, opening a narrow, wooden door from the ring of keys on her belt.  To my surprise, it did not open up to the interrogation room, but rather the observation room that stood beside it.  Through the two-way glass, I could see a figure in a rumpled navy suit, hunched over the metal table, fiddling with his cuffs.  His face was turned away from me, but I could make out bandages on his hands and a bruise under his eye.

“Street fight?” I offered.

Office Mulcahey shook her head, her expression somehow managing to become more somber.  “We were given a report when he was brought in that he was snatching purses over on 5th.”

I turned back to the mirror, swallowing hard.  “Office Mulcahey … Rebecca, I’m sorry to ask this, but as a doctor I have certain … obligations.  Those bandages on his wrists suggest defensive wounds.  Were those inflicted by the arresting officer?”

Mulcahey turned to face me, a flicker of warmth passing over her face.  “No idea,” she replied, her expression hardening again, “He was brought in by the Batman.”

I felt my blood pressure spike, anger and outrage burning through my veins.  I swallowed hard, taking a long, deep breath, allowing my heartbeat to slow slightly before I spoke again.

In as calm a tone as I could muster, I said, “Thank you for your candor.  Can I speak to him now?”

She nodded, motioning for the door.

“I’ll be down the hall, if you need anything,” she added, disappearing with a long, clipped stride.


	5. The Joker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley interviews the Batman's victim, Jack Kane, who warns her to leave Gotham.

I drew out Dr. Crane’s notes and strode easily into the room, my expression warm, but clinical.  First impressions and all.

“Jack ‘the Joker’ Kane, I presume?”

He raised his head to see me, a wide, cynical smile spreading across his face.  He was younger than I had expected from his file, with dark skin and long, wavy brown hair.  His eyes were bright, and locked on me as soon as I stepped into the room, running easily down from my face to my hips and back, his smile spreading from cynical to coy.  His grin was contagious - I had to fight to maintain my clinical expression.  I guessed that with that face and smile, he was probably as much conman as criminal, depending on charm and flirtation as much as intimidation.

“Who wants to know?” he asked as I sat opposite him, sitting forward and leaning on his elbows, his face only a foot from mine.  Close up, I noticed the scars on his cheeks, one partly blocked by the bruise under his eye.  They were narrow but deep, too consistent for them to be the outcome of a fight.  An intentional act with a knife, I guessed at a glance.

“My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel,” I replied, setting down the files and pulling out a tape recorder.  “I’m a doctor at Arkhan.  You can call me Harley…”

“Harlequin, eh?” he replied.

I rolled my eyes unconsciously.  “Yes, like ‘harlequin.’  You’re not the first person to notice that.”

I paused for a beat, reforming my calm demeanor.  “I’m taking over for Dr. Crane at Arkham.  I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about what happened to you.”

His smile faded.  “You’re here about the Batman?” he asked coldly.

The sudden shift in his expression surprised me, although given the pair’s history, I suppose it shouldn’t have. 

“Yes, Mr. Kane.  What can you tell me about him?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Kane.  As part of my position at Arkham, I’ve been asked to prepare a report and evaluation about Batman.  Any details you could give me about him - his dress, his behavior, anything he may have said to you - would be helpful.”

Jack’s eyes passed briefly over the two-way mirror, and he forced a grin.  “I’ll make your job easy - the guy’s crazy.  Grade A.  Runs around in a cape and leotard, calls himself ‘the night,’ likes to take cheap shots at innocent members of the public, such as myself.”

“My understanding was that he brought you in because you were assaulting and robbing people.”

My tone was edging on antagonistic.  If Kane wanted to play, I was happy to play.  But it was obvious from the mood changes that it was a cover for something much more serious.

“You always listen to bullies?” he shot back.  “Guy drags me in here hogtied, and I’m the one detained.”

“So he attacked you without reason.”

“I wasn’t robbing no one,” he grumbled in response, slouching in his seat.  I considered his words, turning them over in my mind.  He hadn’t denied my statement, only confirmed that his supposed purse-snatching was not the reason for which he earned the Caped Crusader’s ire.  That left open the possibility that there was a reason, if only I could get him to talk about it.

I glanced at the two-way mirror, and paused, gathering up my things.  “Excuse me for one moment, please.”

“Take your time,” he replied, lifting his wrists and jangling the cuffs against the table.

I slipped back into the observation room, disheartened to find Jack’s suspicions were correct.  Two officers and a tall, broad man with fading white hair stood beside the window.

“That’s funny - I didn’t know I was doing an interrogation,” I said coldly.

“Dr. Quinzel,” the older man said, turning to offer me his thick palm, “We haven’t met yet.  I’m Police Commissioner Gordon.”

I shook his hand, saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commissioner.  However, I don’t appreciate being spied on.”

“This is my interrogation room.”

I sighed, measuring my words.  “I understand that, sir.  However, I work for Arkham, not for you.  If you prefer that I not utilize your space, that’s entirely understandable - I will make arrangements with Mr. Kane to interview him off-site.”

“Nonsense,” Gordon replied.  His smile was as broad and as false as the Joker’s.  “You’re welcome to use the room.  I was just surprised to hear that someone was interviewing Kane, and stopped in to see what was happening.”

I passed a short glance at the other two officers.  “Of course,” I responded.  “Well, I prefer to conduct my interviews in private.  It’s important for the people I work with to feel they can trust me.  So if you wouldn’t mind…”

I reached out, switching on the extra lights, illuminating the two-way mirror.  Jack glanced up, offering the Commissioner a stunted wave against his restraints.

Commissioner Gordon nodded to him, ushering the officers back out.  As I reached for the observation room door, he added, “I do expect you to report to me with anything relevant to Mr. Kane’s case, of course.”

“Of course, Commissioner.”

I slipped back into the interrogation room, replacing the files and tape recorder on the table.  “That’s better.”

Jack was studying me intently.  I didn’t fight his gaze, waiting patiently for his response.

“How did you know they were in there?” he asked, one eyebrow arching over the other.

I smiled warmly.  “I didn’t.  You did.  It seemed like a reasonable concern, so I went to investigate.  I’m a doctor, Mr. Kane.  I take privacy and confidentiality very seriously.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his tone suddenly turning genuine.  “And you can call me Jack, if you want.  Mr. Kane always sounds like you’re talking to my dad.”

“Jack it is, then,” I replied. “So, Jack, what do you want to tell me about the Batman?”

He sighed, and said slowly, “I want to tell you to get as far away from him and this town as possible.”

“I appreciate your concern, I do.  But that’s not really an option.  So what else should I know?”

He leaned forward on his elbows again, but he wasn’t smiling.  “Why are you in Gotham?”

“I was invited to take over Dr. Crane’s position.”

“By whom?”

I sighed, weighing the options.  On the one hand, I wanted Jack to trust me, but at the same time, there was still a great deal of politics involved.  For the time being, however, he was more useful as an ally.

“The mayor.”

“And what did he tell you about the Bat?”

“That he’s not sure he wants a vigilante in a costume running around town,” I replied.  With a grin, I added, “You’ve got to expect that sort of thing brings down tourism.”

“But nothing else?”

“What should he have told me?”

“Well, for starters, he didn’t mention his run-ins with the Bat?”

I paused for a beat, fighting to control my shock.  “No.  But then again, I didn’t ask.  So you’re saying he knows Batman?”

Jack’s face was stark and serious, his skin visibly sallow.  His injured eye twitched against the bruise.

“He knows,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “Everyone knows.”

His words shook me, like a cold, sharp wind, cutting through me.

“What do you mean everyone knows, Jack?”

He glanced down at the tape recorder, and then down at his manacles.  “Go ask the Mayor.  I’m done talking.”

I nodded, switching off the recorder and gathering up my things.  Rising to my feet, I said, “Thank you for your assistance, Jack.”

He stared up at me, began to speak, and then stopped again.  Taking a heavy breath, he said, “Please, get out of town.  It’ll be easier.”

“I can’t,” I replied, “I’m sorry.”


	6. The Caped Crusader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley learns the surprising identity of the Batman.

I called the Mayor’s Office from the car, requesting an urgent meeting with the Mayor in as stern language as I could muster.  Molly gave me a few excuses, but I stood firm, and she eventually agreed to a late coffee at the end of the day.  I agreed, waiting out the hours in the car with my laptop, researching the world’s most famous superhero.

The sun had already set by the time I made my way upstairs.  The City Council Chambers were nearly vacant, my footfalls echoing across the marble floors.

Molly was putting on her coat when I arrived.  “Good evening, Dr. Quinzel.”

“Good evening,” I replied, “Thank you again for organizing this meeting on such short notice.”

She blushed at the compliment.  “Not a problem.  The Mayor will be out in a few minutes.  I was going to head out, but if you need anything?...”

“No, I’m fine.  Please go - I’ve probably already made you late.”

She smiled, her face suddenly full of gratitude.  She gathered up the last of her things and hurried out the glass doors, the clicking of her heels disappearing as the glass slid shut.  I settled down onto the slick, leather couches, measuring my breaths, planning and replanning my words.

“Dr. Quinzel!” Cobblepot announced warmly.  “This is a surprise - I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

“Thanks,” I said as he ushered me back to office.

Settling in his chair, he asked, “So then, ready to make your report already?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, settling opposite him.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had direct interactions with Batman?”

He balked, staring at the floor for a moment.  Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, announcing, “It is after 5 - can I interest you in a drink?”

“I’m not going to let off this, Oswald.  I don’t appreciate being lied to or misdirected.  It’s a shrink thing - we’re generally against it.  Trust is kind of a big thing with us.”

“I’m not trying to wave you off, Harley.  But trust me, you’re going to want a drink for this.”

“Alright then.”

“I was going to fix myself a martini - would you like one?”

“I’d prefer a scotch, if you have it.”

“Of course,” he replied with a grin, apparently amused by the request.  “Glenlivet alright?”

“Yes please, with just a bit of water.”

I took my drink as he settled back in his seat, allowing the heat of the drink to sink through me.

“Well then?” I asked.

He sighed, staring up at me.  His polished expression had faded, though, replaced with genuine discomfort.  “You have to understand - it’s not something I’m very comfortable talking about.”

“I can understand that, but if you’re serious about wanting my recommendation, then I need as much information as I can find.”

He nodded, sipping on his drink.  “Yes, I’ve had run-ins with Batman.  Probably every person of any note in Gotham has.  He’s … vindictive.  He forms these attachments to people, develops all sorts of strange notions about them.”

“What were his notions about you?”

“That I was corrupt, that I was stealing from the city, that I was trying to kill people … and that I … had an army of…”

“An army of what?” I asked as his words dissolved into mumbling.

“An army of penguins,” he grunted in reply, “I expect you’ve heard my nickname around town.”

“That’s terrible,” I replied, “And cruel.  And strange.”

“Things with the Bat are always strange.”

“So is that why you didn’t tell me?  Because it was embarrassing for you?”

“In part,” he admitted, “But to be honest, I was also hoping to keep you at some distance from all of this.”

“Why?”

“What do you know about Dr. Crane’s death?”

I was startled by the question.  “Dr. Leland at the hospital said it was carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“It was,” the Mayor replied, “But homes don’t usually spontaneously develop CO leaks.”

“You think something happened to him?  And that Batman’s behind it?”

“Jon was a good man, but he had a lot of faith in people.  That’s an admirable trait, but not always a smart one.  He thought Batman could be … should be treated.  When he started gathering evidence, he went to everyone in town.  And then one afternoon, I get a phone call that he’s died.  In an apparent accident.  I can’t help but be suspicious.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said, suddenly realizing it was the second time that day I’d said it, “I really do.  But I’ve worked in rehabilitation and corrections for a long time.  I understand the risks.  And having good information helps protect me from those risks.”

He nodded sullenly.  “I do understand that.  It’s just … I’m the Mayor!  I’m not a general.  I don’t like feeling like I’m ordering people into battle.”

“It’s my choice,” I replied, “As it was Jon’s.  We really do understand that what we do comes with certain risks.  That’s part of why trust is such a big deal for us.”

He nodded again.

“There’s more you’re not telling me, Oswald,” I continued, my words careful and my tone even, “The way you talk - the way everyone talks - it sounds like you think you know who’s behind the mask.”

I pinned him in a gentle gaze.  Slowly, he sighed, his face turning to the floor.

“It’s not hard to work out - you would have realized it sooner or later,” he replied, “The man has backing, he’s got resources and money coming out his ears, access to the very best in technology, and no one in Gotham feels like they can touch him…”

I turned his words over in my mind, ideas bouncing back and forth like a pinball.  Finally, the ball sank.

“You think Batman is Bruce Wayne?!”

“It is Bruce,” he hissed.

“That’s not possible.  Whoever the Batman is, he displays characteristics of extreme paranoia, narcissism, probably even schizophrenia and dementia, if what you’re telling me about his delusions are true.  Bruce Wayne is the CEO of one of the largest multinational corporations in the world.  He gives interviews, he goes on goodwill tours - he’s known worldwide.”

“And oddly enough, when he goes off on those goodwill tours?  Batman-related violence drops significantly in Gotham.”

“Someone would have noticed!  Someone would have said something!  That sort of story … if nothing else, it’s paparazzi gold!”

“The Waynes have long arms.  Always have.  Bruce has people in every major city in the world willing to do his dirty work for the right price,” Oswald replied, nearly biting off his words, “And here in town, he doesn’t need anyone.  He takes care of things himself.”

“You really expect me to believe that there’s a billionaire in tights, running around Gotham at night, beating the crap out of people he thinks have wronged him?”

Oswald leaned forward on the arm of his chair, staring seriously into my eyes.  “Who else could get away with it for this long?”

I started to speak, but was silenced by a loud crash from the street, followed by the howl of a car alarm.

“Speak of the devil,” Oswald said, going to the window.  A pair of delicate French doors opened onto a narrow balcony.  The autumn air was cold, our breath hanging before us as we stared into the city, illuminated with the sickly, orange glow of streetlights and shop windows.

A few blocks away, a figure appeared from around a darkened corner.  He was dressed all in black, with a black cape flowing around him.  A cowl with pointed ears cast a grotesque shadow across the street.  He pulled a strange, long gun from his hip, shooting a hook and cord onto a nearby fire escape, pulling himself up to a higher vantage point.

“So you’re telling me that’s Bruce Wayne?”

Oswald nodded in reply.

I turned away, a cold shiver running through me.  My mind drifted back to Jack in the police station - he would have been released by now.  I hoped silently that he was off the streets.

“So what do you think of the job now?” Oswald asked.  The jocularity faded from his voice as he said, “If you don’t want to take it now, I would entirely understand.”

I shook my head.  “No.  Crane was right.  If he’s that untouchable, then he absolutely needs treatment.”

“That plan didn’t end well for Jon.”

“I’m not reckless, Oswald.  I have no intention of going after Batman.  But I do think he needs to be taken off the street, and I need more information about him before I could recommend how to do that in the safest way possible.”

“The police force would have the information you’re after,” Cobblepot said, “But as I said, Batman has a lot of supporters there.  If I might offer a suggestion?  Go speak to Ed Nygma.”

“Bruce’s business rival?  I assume he’s had run-ins with Batman, as well?”

“On several occasions.  Also he has some exceptional engineers and software people working for him.  If anyone would have uncorrupted data on the Bat, it would be him.  I’ll let him know why you’re in town.”

“Thank you.”

“And although I appreciate that my actions thus far may not inspire trust, I do want to help.  I’m at your disposal, if there’s anything I can do.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” I said, placing down my glass with a clink.  “And please do believe me that I will be careful.”

“Thank you,” he said weakly.

“Well,” I started, rising to my feet, “It’s been quite a long day.  Goodnight, Oswald.”

“Goodnight, Harley.”


	7. The Gotham City Diner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley gets a second chance to talk to the Joker.

I tugged at my coat as I hurried down the driveway of the City Council Chambers.  The car alarm had stopped, but I thought I could still make out the sounds of heavy footfalls in the distance.  Late night commuters, I told myself.

Bill was waiting outside the car, fiddling with his phone.  But another figure was lingering across the street.

“Hey, Doc!” he called.

I glanced up, and he pulled back his hat so I could make out his face.  Jack.  I was surprised and a little alarmed to see him there.  I waved off Bill and hurried across the street.

“Hello, Jack,” I said.

“Hey, Doc,” he said again.  

“What are you doing here?”

“I just got out,” he replied, fiddling with a loose thread on his glove, “I saw the driver out front and the lights on in the Mayor’s office, thought it might be you…”

“Just so we’re very clear, Jack,” I replied seriously, “I don’t find someone following me sweet or romantic.  It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, no, a’ course,” he mumbled, obviously fumbling for words, “I didn’t mean it like that.  I’m mean, sure, you’re a looker, but…”

His face flushed, and he stopped, shooting me a furtive glance.  Taking a sharp breath, he started again, “I stopped because I was … I was hoping it was you, up with the Mayor, because that would mean you had listened to me.  Not a lot of people like you do that.”

“People like me?  Doctors?” I asked, surprised he had had enough contact with doctors to have an opinion on the matter.

“Yeah, sure, doctors.  Teachers.  Police.  You know, serious-type people.  A lot of people, they hear you’ve done time or that you’ve run with a certain crowd, and suddenly it’s like you’re Chicken Little, sayin’ the sky is fallin’.”

_Ah_ , I thought to myself.   _Authority figures.  That makes a lot more sense._

“Well, I’m glad I listened to you,” I replied, “The Mayor was very helpful.”

“Good, I’m glad,” he mumbled, going back to fiddling with his glove.  “Anyways, I’m sure you…”

He nodded at Bill, who was trying his best to appear as though he was not watching us.

“Unless you want to go … get something to eat?” Jack offered.

I paused, weighing my options.  On the one hand, I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.  On the other hand, a meeting he had suggested was much more likely to bear fruit than a discussion in an interrogation room, and at the moment, it was looking unlikely that I would have many other opportunities to speak to him.

My introspection got the best of me, leaving a rather awkward silence hanging between us, which Jack apparently felt compelled to fill.  “Because I just got out of holding.  And could use some food.  If not, it’s not a big deal.  But there’s a really great diner about a block from here.  It’d be a shame to live in Gotham and never discover it…”

A diner was perfect.  It would probably not be terribly crowded at this time of day, but it was still a public place.

“Actually, I could do with some food,” I replied.  

He smiled brightly, “Great!”

“Let me just let Bill know.  What’s the name of the place we’re going to?”

I hoped it was a good enough reason to ask the name of the restaurant, rather than making it glaring obvious that I wanted to tell someone where we were going.

“It’s called the Gotham City Diner.  It’s about a block - it’d probably be faster to just walk, to be honest.”

“Fair enough - then I’ll just go say goodnight.”

Bill was still purposefully staring at his phone as I crossed back to him.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Actually, I think I’m going to walk from here.  You said my apartment is fairly close by?”

“Yeah, it’s at 121 Central.  Take this street to the corner, hang a left, and it’s two blocks over.”

“We’re going to the Gotham City Diner - is that quite close, as well?”

Bill raised an eyebrow, his gaze passing back to Jack.  “Yeah, it’s at the end of the block…”

“Okay, great.  Well, thanks for everything - I’ll see you in the morning?”

He hesitated, but finally nodded.  “Seven thirty alright?”

“That would be fine.  Have a good night!”

I could feel his gaze hovering over us as I returned to Jack, but finally I heard the car grumble and pull off as we hurried down the road.  We walked in silence until we reached the diner.  Its bright, white lights shone into the darkening street.  Inside, it was all red, vinyl seats and white, plastic tiles, like something out of Leave It to Beaver, suddenly given color.

Jack motioned for one of the booths by the window.  “This okay?”

“Sure,” I replied, dropped my bag and pulling off my coat.  He slid in across the table, pulling off his coat and ragged gloves.  His hands immediately grasped at the linoleum table top, picking at the chrome edging.  I felt a gentle smile spread over my face as I turned to inspect the laminated menus.  It was the standard greasy spoon fare, with a few Gotham-inspired extras.  I noticed that they featured both a ‘penguin’ and a ‘nightbat’ shake - the former vanilla-and-chocolate swirl, and the latter dark chocolate with extra fudge, advertised as “dark as the night.”  I pondered whether the mayor knew of this dubious honor as the waitress appeared.  She was a short, squat figure, with a bun of black hair and a bright smile.

“Welcome back to the Gotham City Diner,” she said with a grin to Jack, “What can we getcha?”

“I’ll have the chorizo omelet, please,” I said, “With home fries and wheat toast?”

“Anything to drink, hon?”

I sighed, still feeling the scotch still soaking through me, “Orange juice.”

“And for you?”

“The cheeseburger, medium, with fries, and a brown cow,” Jack replied without ever touching the menu.

She nodded, scribbling as she left.

“Come here often?” I offered.

He grin, nodding.  “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hangout.  I used to work nearby, and it’s pretty cheap.”

“Where did you work?”

“I did some … odd jobs, for an office down here.”

I nodded, carefully managing my clinical smile.  When our drinks appeared, Jack started wrapping and unwrapping the straw wrapper around his index finger.

“So how are you finding Gotham?” he asked, his eyes locked with his hands.

“Alright, I guess.  I mean, I’ve only been here for a few hours so far.”

“Seriously?” he asked, incredulous, his gaze bounding up to meet mine.

I nodded with a sigh.  “I got in this morning.  I haven’t even seen the place the mayor rented for me.”

He grinned.  “Must be nice to be a city employee.”

The grin was infectious.  I renewed my earlier thought that he was probably as much charlatan as criminal.  “It’s the first time it’s happened, I assure you.  Actually at my last job, I lived on site.”

“In the looney bin?”

I rolled my eyes.  “It’s a hospital.  It’s not like _American Horror Story_ or anything.  The institution in Metropolis is pretty far outside of the city, so they have a wing for the staff to stay in, if they want.  A couple of the psychiatrists and therapists lived there.”

“So that’s where you were before?  Metropolis?”

I nodded, pausing as our food arrived.  “Yeah, I worked at the long-term care facility there.”

“For the criminally insane?” he added, his grin nearly manic.

“It was a high security facility, yes.”

“It really doesn’t faze you, does it?” he asked finally, philosophically dripping his straw in and out of his drink.  “You’re not afraid I’m going to go mental, stab you or something?”

I sighed, repeated my practiced response.  “No.  I’ve worked with people who were severely unstable, but they were just that.  They were people.  People with really severe problems.  It’s hard to … hold that against them, once you see them up close.”

“So is that what’s wrong with the Bat?” he grumbled.

“I suspect he is unstable, yes.  Not many people devote this much time to a fantasy if they’re not.”

He nodded, his expression turning sour.

“So how did you run into him, originally?” I asked, allowing a practice calm to settle over my expression as I munched on my dinner.

Jack shot back a glare, one eyebrow arched over the other.

“You brought him up,” I added.

He gave a half-nod, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth.  Once they were gone, he started, “Okay, well … like I said, I use to work for some guys around here.  Nothing real bad, but it wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up.  I was helping them move some cargo, down on the dock, and out of nowhere, this maniac in a big black cape jumps down from a fire escape and starts knocking heads together.  He grabs me by the neck and - and, you know, I’ve been in a few dust-ups in my life, I felt like I could hold my own - but he just about flings me into the crates.  Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t snap my neck.  I ended up with this big ‘ol bruise, all across my shoulder - you could nearly read the words “handle with care” in it.  And then he zipties the lot of us and leaves us there, muttering something about ‘justice is served.’  And before you know it, the 5-0 show up and bundle us off to the station.”

“How did he know you were there?”

Jack shrugged, downing another handful of fries.  “No idea.  Maybe he was following us.  Maybe someone had already called the cops and he had a scanner.”

“That sounds horrifying.”

He shrugged again, pausing to finish off his burger.  “It certainly wasn’t fun.  Felt like I could barely move for the next week.  Plus, it’s hard to recuperate in jail.”

I knew Dr. Crane’s files had mentioned several attacks on Jack by the Batman, three of which ended up with him back in jail.  Part of me wanted to learn more, but Jack’s trust in me was still new, and I was tentative to push him.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I offered.

His face sunk, staring at his hands as he scooped up the last of the ketchup with his fries.  

“So, what did you think of the food?” he offered after a long pause, glancing over at my near-empty plate.

“It was very good,” I replied brightly, “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“No problem.  Like I said, I know the neighborhood pretty well.”

The waitress returned for our plates, and Jack adamantly refused my offer to pay for the food, asking her to split the check instead.  He paid his half in crumpled notes, including, by my rough math, a sizable tip.  

“Well, thanks, Doc,” he said, pulling on his gloves.

“You know you can call me ‘Harley,’ right?”

He shrugged, “I know.  Do you mind?”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head.  “I just wanted to remind you.   And thank you, this was a very nice evening.”

He nodded, holding open the door for me.  “Any time.”

He hurried across the street, but paused, calling back, “And welcome to Gotham!”

I felt a grin spreading across my face again as I dug out my phone, checking for messages before pulling up the directions to my new apartment.  Bill hadn’t been exaggerating about the proximity - it turned out I could just make out the edge of the building from where I was standing.  It was a pretty Victorian building, with marble steps and a tall, narrow entryway.  A guard sat at a tall, marble desk, staring at a bay of screens.  As I came to stand beside him, I noticed five displayed hallways and a docking bay - the sixth was “Looney Tunes.”

“Good evening,” I started, “I’m Harleen Quinzel.”

“Oh, yes, welcome,” he replied, “Your driver dropped off you things earlier today, said you’d be back this evening.  He left the keys for you.”  
He handed me an envelope with a pair of keys, one a door lock and another a postbox, along with a long, grey fob.

“You’re in 208.  The elevator is just at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Have a good night,” he said, his attention returning to Wile E. Coyote.

The apartment was small but elegant, with a long, narrow kitchen on one side and a wide bedroom on the other, a small sitting area with a loveseat and a table and chairs pressed into the breakfast bar dividing them.  My suitcases were waiting for me just inside the door.  I unpacked a few essentials, leaving them open on the loveseat for another day.

Stripping off my suit, I was suddenly aware of how tired I was.  I reset the alarm on my phone and texted Bill for a later pickup, forgoing my normal early morning rising for the sake of a few extra hours sleep.  I still had files to review, but my normal rotation wouldn’t start for another day, and I was more than happy to give myself some time to settle in.

I flipped off the lights and drew back the sheets, sinking into the bed.  The room was dim, light filtering through the large, bay windows from the office buildings across from me.  I slowly sunk into a heavy sleep, but just as I did, there was the familiar crack of the fire escape, just outside my window.

I shot up in bed, staring into the night.  The room was still.  I creeped to the window, pulling back the gauzy curtains just far enough to peek through.

There was nothing there, just the fluorescent lights from the building across the street.  I sighed, trying to convince myself that it was my nerves getting the better of me.  I pulled the curtains tightly together and crawled back into bed, still feeling the creeping sensation of a lingering gaze.


	8. The Riddler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley interviews Ed Nygma.

The next few weeks were consumed with work at Arkham.  I met my patients and started attending the groups that I would be supervising once my probationary period was over.  I was relieved to find that none of my new charges were particularly resistant to me taking over for Dr. Crane, although disheartened to find that several had been badly triggered by his death.  I resolved to inquire from Dr. Leland about a grief therapy group, and to start one if it didn’t exist at Arkham.  It wasn’t my specialty, but it was clear that grief and loss played a large role in the development of several of the patients, too large a role to be overlooked.

My patients were, for the most part, familiar, with the same heavy expressions and anxious eyes I had seen before.  Most were violent repeat offenders, a few with severe phobias or lasting delusions.  Arkham seemed to be as committed to their care as any other institution I had been associated with, and yet I couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that seemed to hang over the place.  In dark corners, the scribbled phrase ‘Caped Crusader’ and cartoon bats appeared again and again, like Kilroy, apparently springing fully-formed from some common consciousness.  The men in the yard called ‘Crusader’ as they laid into one another, shaking off the guards with terrifying fury, and screamed ‘Batman’ in the night as they shot up in bed, shaking and soaked in sweat.  It was as though he had possessed them, haunting the quiet halls and invading what was meant to be safe space for their recovery.  

Sometimes I wondered if he knew, if the man who stalked through the halls of Wayne Manor understood the terror he inspired.  Academically, I knew it was inconsequential - if he was, indeed, delusional, as my evidence suggested, then he could not understand the real consequences of his actions, only those that fit into the narrative in his mind.  But still the thought lingered in my mind as his silhouette seemed to linger in every shadow.

I had followed the Mayor’s advice and contacted the office of Dr. Edward Nygma for an informal interview.  His bright, bubbly assistant had apologized profusely, explaining that he had heard from the Mayor’s office that I should be made a priority on Dr. Nygma’s calendar, but that Dr. Nygma was on a shareholders’ meeting tour, currently somewhere in the Persian Gulf, scheduled to visit Italy and England, and only due back in several weeks.  I agreed to take the next available appointment upon his return, more than a month later, but by the time his office called to confirm, I had all but forgotten about it.

“This is Dr. Quinzel.”  

I answered my phone distractedly, still focusing on the patient file before me.  I had spent much of the morning fielding phone calls from the local paper, who wanted to do a puff piece about me taking over Dr. Crane’s position, a process I found as irritating as I did pointless.  In my experience, few people actually care who is charged with caring for criminals; my guess was in Gotham, that number was even further reduced.

“Hi, Dr. Quinzel.  This is Farid in Dr. Ed Nygma’s office.”

The words bounced through my distracted mind, finally settling like a sinking pinball.

“Oh, yes, hello,” I replied, “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks for asking,” he replied, his bubbly tone nearly doubling.  “I was just calling to confirm your appointment with Ed, tomorrow at 4pm.  Does that still work for you?”

I glanced up at my calendar.  Thankfully I had had the common sense to block out the time.  “Yes, that should be fine.”

“Great.  There’s guest parking on the first floor of the garage.  I can validate when you get here.  You’ll need to check in with security first - they’ll need to see picture ID.  Sorry, I know it’s a hassle, but it’s policy…”

“That’s fine,” I was quick to add.  “I’ll plan to be there a bit early.  Thank you again for helping to arrange this.”

“No problem at all,” he replied brightly.  “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, see you then.”

  
  


The Nygma Enterprises building sparkled under the ray of a winter sunset as we approached it the next day.  Bill pulled into the parking garage with a click of his tongue.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” he asked for a third time.

“No, really, it’s fine,” I reiterated.  “This is so close to my place.  I’ll just walk home.”

He clicked his tongue again as I slid out of the car, lumbering a bit with a bag full of my computer and case files for the next day’s one-on-ones.

“Have a good night,” I called, and he nodded, pulling the car into a wide turn back out onto the street.

I followed the white and yellow signs out of the garage and up to the main building.  Inside, Nygma Enterprises was a dazzling marvel of modern style - soft natural light pouring down a chrome and white tower and glistening on open spaces, gentle waterfalls and huge patches of greenery.  It was befitting a company that prided itself on technological innovation.  I traced long, clean lines up the tower’s interior - through glass walls, I could make out brightly colored couches and lounges, bullpens, whimsical design - all of the hallmarks of a modern, innovative company.  

Before coming to Gotham, I was vaguely aware of Nygma Enterprises, in the same way I was aware of any Fortune 500 company whose shiny new product I had occasionally lusted over while killing time in a mall or an airport, but the real research I had done the night before.  I had known that Dr. Nygma himself had started out in R&D at Wayne Industries, but had left over ‘creative differences.’  According to internet buzz and Wall Streeter blogging, I now knew that although Nygma had always been cautious not to specify the cause of the split publically, he had spoken out regularly about the inherent danger in private companies taking on military and intelligence agency contracts, an interest that many attributed to his time at WI.  It was also apparently common knowledge among research insiders that although Nygma Enterprises held several impressive federal contracts and grants, these were exclusively from the domestic branches - NIH, NSF, HUD, Agriculture.  They had apparently also turned down a contract with the Department of Energy a year ago, a move that Nygma himself explain as “making me feel uncomfortable about the level of involvement my company would need to have in geopolitical negotiations.  We’re inventors, not politicians.  No one elected us.  We shouldn’t be deciding anyone’s fate.”

I couldn’t deny the quote had made me smile.  

A quick google search had also evidenced that Nygma Enterprises had some of the happiest workers on the planet, something similarly visible as I wandered through the lobby.  Nygma was on record for citing Microsoft, Apple, Pixar, and even Ben and Jerry’s as inspirations for his business plan, and the result was an odd sense of calm contentment that I had yet to experience anywhere else in Gotham.

Even the security desk was strangely welcoming - the women in a pressed, green suit emblazoned with the familiar sweeping ‘N’ logo passed me a soft, even smile as I approached.

“Hi, I’m here for a meeting with Dr. Nygma,” I said, grabbing the Arkham ID badge that hung out of the corner of my bag and passing it to her, “I’m Dr. Quinzel.  Do you need my driver’s license?”

“Nope, this is fine,” she said with a grin, running a practiced finger over the edge of the ID before handing it back.  She paused to type something into her terminal and pull out a small, white badge with “VISITOR” in big, black letters before saying, “Welcome to Nygma Enterprises.  I’ll let Dr. Nygma’s office know you’re on your way up.  You can take the executive elevator - it’s the one at the end of the hall.  His office is on floor 34 - you’ll see it as soon as you get off the elevator.”

“Great, thanks,” I said, clipping on the ID.

“Have a good day,” she replied warmly.

I strode to the elevator, quickly joined by a small crowd of employees, all in jeans and faded band Ts, leaving me feeling immensely overdressed.   _ Oh well, nothing to do for it now _ .  A few got off on the lower executive levels, a young man in a AC/DC shirt with a long mane of black hair and a woman in a PAXEast polo and a fro of thick curls joining me at the door to Dr. Nygma’s office.

His assistant was a small man with black hair and olive-oil skin in a fashionable button-down linen shirt, his hair stylistically mussed and his green eyes gleaming behind a pair of thick, black glasses.  He passed an easy grin on the other two.

“John, Aisha, what’s up?”

“We just want to drop off the specs for the new platform,” the woman replied.  Casting a confused glance back at me, she added, “Is he free?”

The assistant passed his easy smile to me, “You must be Dr. Quinzel.  Would you mind terribly waiting for a few minutes?  Ed’s been waiting for these plans all afternoon.”

“No, of course not,” I said, gesturing to the others, “Please, go ahead.”

The pair looked relieved, disappearing behind the thick, wooden doors engraved with the Nygma logo.

“Sorry about this - we have a major project launch next week, and it’s been a madhouse around here.”

“Oh, right, the new Nyphone, right?  I was reading about that last night,” I added.

“Yeah, it’s going to be fantastic, but getting there is hell, you know?”  He sighed, added, “Sorry, I’m Farid.  Can I get you anything?  Coffee?  Coke?  Ed’s really into juicing right now, so we have great beet-carrot mix, too, if you’d like that.”

“I’m fine, thank you, though.”

“Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

I pulled out my tablet and surrendered my bag, as well, settling into one of the ergonomic sofas and pulling up my email.  Nothing urgent, a few follow ups on my most recent round of one-on-ones, and a request to review a paper for a forensics journal.  I agreed to the review, quickly noting the deadline on my calendar as John and Aisha reappeared, words spilling out of them as they exchanged notes from their meeting.  Aisha traded a quick wave with Farid as they disappeared into the elevator.

I glanced up at Farid, awaiting instruction, as a tall, lanky figure appeared in the doorway.  He wore a hunter-green blazer over a faded The Who tshirt and fashionably-ripped jeans. He had a wild mat of red hair and a long face, accentuated by a thick pair of black glasses.

“Dr. Quinzel, I presume?” he announced as I pushed myself to my feet.  He offered out of a long palm.  “Dr. Ed Nygma.”

“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Nygma.  Thank you again for taking the time to see me.”

“Please, call me Ed,” he said, ushering me into his office and sliding shut the door behind us.  “I must admit, when Cobblepot told me what you were here for, I couldn’t stay away.”

We settled on a long, red couch, and he grinned.  “So, you wanna talk about the Bat?”

I smiled.  “Actually, I want to talk about Bruce Wayne.”

“Okay,” he said, his grin widening, “But you do know that those are one in the same, right?”

“So I’ve been told, although I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one.” I replied.  “But what I mean is, I’m curious that Bruce Wayne has managed to maintain a public persona if he really does suffer from this level of delusion.  Since you’ve had dealings with both personas, I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on how the two personas interact.”

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at - how does Bruce get along with the Bat?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Well,” he said, leaning back on his elbow, long fingers intertwined.  “So, ... I imagine you’ve heard the stories about me and WI?”

“I know you used to work in R&D there, left due to a disagreement with Bruce Wayne, and used your severance to set up Nygma Enterprises.”

“Bruce recruited me personally,” he said, his long grin slowly fading, “I was in grad school at the time - computer science - and me and some buddies put together a couple of apps.  Mostly dating/hook up stuff - we were twenty-five, that was the stuff we cared about, you know?”

I nodded, “Sure.”

“So here’s Bruce Wayne, saying how great our work is and how impressed he is, and he offers us all jobs in his R&D department.  One of my buddies said no, let Bruce buy him out, and finished his PhD.  He’s a professor in California now.  Me and my other buddy, Ted, we thought, hey, great deal!  Hell yes!”

“So what happened at WI?” 

“For a while, nothing.  We were doing raw programming - someone would come to us, say they needed a program that does whatever, and we’d build it.  But after a while … it was all sort of the same.  Tracking software.  GPS software.  Facial ID software.  It all seemed harmless enough - you want facial recog software so a phone automatically unlocks when its owner looks at it?  Cool.  But it still … it still seemed a bit off, though, right?”

“So did you go to Bruce with your concerns?”

“Not right away.  I was just a kid, still super-excited to be working there.  But that’s when I started hearing stories about Batman.  How he was cornering people on street corners.  How he was ambushing criminals.  How he must have hacked the police network.  Here’s this crazy guy in a cape, but he’s so good at finding people.  It just … didn’t sit well.”

“So what happened?”

“It was my buddy, Ted, the one I joined with?  I was talking to him about all of this, but he was like, no, you’re crazy, no way.  Bruce Wayne is a great guy!  I’ll prove it - I’ll go talk to him, he’ll explain how crazy this is!”

“And?”

“Well, he wanted me to go with him, but I thought, no way, Bruce will fire me for sure.  So Ted goes and talks to him, telling him he’s heard some rumors, doesn’t want to name names, but it’s all crazy, right?  I think he expected Bruce to laugh about it.  Instead, he flies off the handle, starts screaming about loyalty and defamation of character and who’s spreading these rumors?!  He threatens to fire Ted if he doesn’t tell him.  And he did - I don’t blame him, I probably would have done the same - but he tells him it’s me.”

“That must have been hard for you.”

“Sure, I was pissed,” he replied, “Ted came back to my office and told me what had happened, and I was pissed.  I was pissed at Ted for going in the first place, and at Bruce for putting him in that position.  But I just thought, oh well, that’s it - pink slip for sure.”

“So you were fired from WI?” I said, surprise edging into my voice.  All of the reports I had read had said Nygma quit.

“No,” he replied, giving a half-hearted laugh.  “That’s what I was expecting.  What happened instead was Batman.  See, at this point, it hadn’t even registered that Bruce could be the Bat, right?  I just thought he was selling our tech to this crazy guy - I thought he was probably some drug lord trying to take down the competition or some old army sniper that had gone crazy in the service or something.  So imagine my surprise when I go to my car after a late night, and this guy in pressed black vinyl jumps out of the shadows and throws me over my car hood, shouting at me to stay away from Bruce Wayne and keep my nose out of his business.  I mean, I was terrified!  I had no idea what to do!  But I was face-to-face with him, you know?  He was maybe this far from me.”

He held his hand in from of his face, maybe a foot.

“And it was definitely Bruce.  Half of his face was visible, and his eyes, and his voice.  I mean - I had seen the guy regularly, it was definitely him.  And I was just so shocked that I just cracked, started laughing, of all things!  I was, like, Bruce?!”

“That’s actually not an uncommon response to fear,” I added, “It’s your mind’s way of trying to lighten the load.”

“Well, it didn’t work.  He freaked out even more, started screaming about how did I know?  Who told me?  Who was I working with?  It was bizarre.”

“So that’s when you left?”

“No,” he said, laughing again, “That also would have made sense.  He jumped me, he screamed at me, and then he let me go.  I drove home, I went to bed, and when I got up the next morning, it all just seemed like this crazy dream.  If it weren’t for the bruises on my shoulders, I probably wouldn’t even have believed it.  So I just … tried to shake it off, I guess?  I went into the office, and just waited to see what would happen.”

“And what did happen?”

“Nothing.  I was in a board meeting with Bruce the very next day, and it was like it never happened.  He was smiling, shaking my hand, meeting my eyes, joking about our next project.  Ted was there - even he was weirded out about it, and he didn’t even know about the attack.  He grabbed me straight after and asked if I had gone and begged to keep my job or something.  I didn’t know what to say!  I just sort of shrugged him off, and just … it was like I was numb.  I just stumbled through my work, for weeks.”

“And what made it worse was - it didn’t stop.  ‘Batman’ would keep appearing.  He didn’t grab me again, but I’d go to my car and he’d be waiting there, or standing on the fire escape outside my building.  I was constantly on edge.  I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t sleep.  I was barely eating, just coffee and energy drinks.  Actually, come to think of it, I think that’s when I started to care about nutrition, because after that, my stomach was so delicate, for months.”

I nodded, “Unfortunately, that’s another common symptom of anxiety - your GI system shuts down in order to conserve energy.”

He nodded, “Yeah, that sounds about right.  Ugh, it was terrible.  But you know what the straw that broke the camel’s back was?”

I shook my head, and he just grinned, looking exhausted.

“He offered to make me CSO.  It was about two months later, and our current CSO was retiring, and he offered me the position.  He brought me into his office, shook my hand, patted my shoulder, talked about how much he loved working with me, that he trusted me.  Trusted me?!  And I just … it was like in cartoons, a light bulb over my head, you know?  Like, oh, okay, you’re insane.  I get it now.  You’re offering me a job where I’d have to work with you for the rest of my career.  I’d never be free.”

“So I said no, and gave my notice.  It was hell - no one at WI would talk to me, not even Ted, or my other friends.  They just wrote me off.  And the Bat, he was everywhere for those two weeks.  He’d wait outside my house, follow me home in this big, black car, it was horrible.  When my notice period was up, I just left - I had some decent savings, and I just rented a cheap apartment in Metropolis, staying there for months, just … I guess, recovering?  It was so intense.  But it made me realize that I wanted to come back.  I guess, I wanted to show people I wasn’t beaten.  So I came back, rented some office space, started getting some investors, all from outside of Gotham, of course.  Once I was secure, I started making offers to people I knew at WI.  My buddy, Ted?  He’s still my CSO, has been since year one!”

“That’s an amazing story,” I said as he took a heavy breath, “You should be very proud of yourself, for how well you survived that experience.  It must have taken a lot of strength.”

“Yeah, well,” he started, forcing a smile, “Anyways, that’s my sob story.  I don’t know if it helps or not.”

“It helps a great deal.  Thank you for being so honest with me, I really do appreciate it.”

“Well, if it helps other people from being in the same position … like I said, that’s a lot of why I set up Nygma Enterprises here.  I wanted to give people an alternative.  Make them feel like they didn’t have to be under Bruce Wayne’s thumb.”

“I appreciate your time, Ed, and your candor.  This has been very enlightening for me.”

“Well, if there’s anything else I can do to help, just let me know.  I definitely support the cause.”

“There is,” I started, thoughts bouncing through my mind.  I paused, and he arched an eyebrow at me.  “Sorry.  There is something else, but it’s …  It’s one of the reasons the Mayor suggested I speak to you, but having heard why you left WI, I feel it might be inappropriate to ask.”

“Well, ask,” he replied, the gentle, wide grin returning to his face, “And if I think it’s inappropriate, I won’t do it.”

“Okay, that’s a fair deal.  I know Batman has a lot of supporters among the police department and in law enforcement, and WI is obviously incredibly well-connected, which makes finding accurate information about Wayne or Batman nearly impossible…”

“‘Nearly impossible’ ought to be our new motto around here!” Nygma said jovially, “I’d be more than happy to help out.  I’ll have a few of our researchers pull some information for you.  We know some useful backdoors.”

“That would be very helpful.  Anything that could help identify how he’s selecting his victims, or anything really about his childhood and early life would be helpful.  I’ve tried my normal channels, but it’s all obviously been edited.”

He nodded, pausing to address a rap on the door.  “Yeah, come in!”

Farid stuck his head in, asking apologetically, “Sorry, Ed - Ted’s here for the presentation run-through?”

“Please, I’ve taken up enough of your time - especially with the launch coming up,” I said, pushing myself to my feet.  “Thank you, again, Ed.  You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

He stood, heavy emotions washing briefly over his face, fading quickly into calm contentment. “I’m glad I could help.  I’ll get you that other info as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” I said again.

“Ted!” Nygma called as a man passed by me in the doorway.  He was nearly the physical opposite of Nygma, short and rotund, with toasted brown skin and thick black hair, cut short against his scalp.  He passed me a quick glance before meeting Nygma, the two exchanging some complicated handshake.  I couldn’t help but smile at the interaction, given the story I had just been told.

“Dr. Quinzel?” Farid asked.

“Hmm?” I replied, slowly being drawn from my thoughts.

“Do you need anything?  Validate parking?  Follow-up meeting?”

“Could you just make sure Dr. Nygma has my contact info,” I replied, handing over my card, “He offered to forward some information to me.”

“Not a problem  - I’ll make a note on his calendar, as well.”

“Thanks, that’s very helpful.”

“Anything else I can help you with?” he asked, handing over my coat and bag.

“No, I think I’m all set.  Thanks.”

“Have a great day!”

“You too - good luck with the launch!”

“Thanks!” he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

I meandered back down to the security drop, returning the visitor’s badge and just generally soaking in the contented atmosphere of the space.  As I stepped out onto the street, Gotham seemed even darker and colder, and I found myself gasping slightly for air.


	9. The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley gets her first glimpse of the Batman up close and personal.

I paused to pull tight my coat and gather my thoughts.  Leaving Nygma Enterprises was like getting out of bed after a lovely dream.  Now, as reality settled back into place, I contemplated what Nygma had told me.  The picture he painted of Bruce Wayne was one of a severe schizophrenic or sociopath, someone who was either genuinely unaware of the shifts in his personality, or so compartmentalized that he couldn’t understand that the fear and harm Batman had done was also his doing.  

He was also clearly abusive, something that echoed the other accounts I had heard and read.  Moreover, Bruce and Batman seemed to serve as the two halves of an abuser - Bruce the charming, apparently loving and supportive side, and Batman the angry, violent side.  Constant interactions with both were part of what caused Nygma’s fearful response - Bruce’s charming demeanor and the ridiculousness of the Batman persona worked as effective gaslighting, leaving Nygma constantly doubting his own experiences.  My brain swirled in a mass of contradictions - anger and disappointment for the situation Nygma and the other employees at WI were placed in, concern over the depths of Wayne’s mental health problems, amazement and contentment that Nygma had trusted his own experiences and gotten away, and awe that he had worked so doggedly to create a safe space for others.

I rounded the corner, the bright lights of the Gotham City diner temporary drawing me out of my analysis.   _ Maybe I should stop in for a bite.   _ It had been a long day, and I didn’t really feel like cooking for myself.   _ Jack might be there _ , I thought, a small smile creeping across my face.  I couldn’t deny that that was also an appealing thought…

I was so caught up in my own thoughts that when a huge figure lunged out of the shadows at me, all of my professional training disappeared, and I simply screamed, pressing myself back against the wall.

He lumbered towards me - easily six feet tall, with a broad chest and wide arms wrapped in black vinyl, a black cape rustling around him.  He wore a cowl across his face, dark, brown eyes piercing through me.

“Harley Quinn,” he growled.

I struggled to take a breath against the frantic beating of my heart.  Finally, I managed to gulp for air, holding it in until my heart rate slowed.

“You must be Batman,” I said slowly, forcing as calm an expression as I could muster.

“You’ve made some dangerous friends, Harley,” he replied.  His voice was low and hoarse, each word seeming to be spit out of his thick lips.

“Have I?” I stammered.

“Edward Nygma and the Mayor - they’re not what they seem.”

“Oh?” I asked lightly.  As discreetly as I could, I pushed myself away from the wall and took a slow step forward, gingerly stepping past him.  “How so?”

He swung on me, glaring down at me, but still without touching me.  “They’re plotting.  Against the city.  It’s not safe for you.”

“Okay,” I said, taking another step forward.  He continued to lean over my shoulder, but still he didn’t approach any closer.  “I appreciate you coming to warn me.”

“I protect this city,” he growled in reply.

I took another step forward, turning back to keep his gaze.  The diner was at the end of the block, maybe fifty steps away.  

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said, taking another step away, “Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

He stared at me for a long moment, freezing me in place, my heart bounding up into my throat.  I contemplated making a break for it, but his icy glare held me firm.

“What do you want to know, Harley?”

The cold rumble of my name across his lips made me shudder.  I drew a sharp breath, forcing myself to speak slowly as I said, “Why do you protect Gotham?”

“Gotham needs protecting.”

“We have police,” I offered, slowly stepping back again, “And state prosecutors, and prisons.  It’s their job to protect the city.”

“Justice,” he chortled, “Is too easily bought.  Justice must be blind.  Absolute.”

“That sounds difficult,” I replied slowly.

“It’s what this city needs.”

I took another step back.  I could feel the light of the diner sinking in around me, like a welcome embrace.  “It also sounds lonely.”

He started to speak, but stopped, his thick lips quivering slightly under his cowl.

“Why do you do this alone?”

“I must,” he said sharply.

I took another step back, pausing to adjust my posture, arching my back and slowly raising my arms, forcing a gentle smile.  “That sounds like a big sacrifice.  Why do you have to make it?”

“Gotham needs me,” he growled.  He leaned closer, his eyes unfocusing, as if he were staring through me to the ground below.

“No one has to sacrifice their life, or their safety,” I continued, “You have the right to those as much as anyone else.”

He simply continued to stare through me, his entire body tense.  Finally, he reared back, and I felt my muscles tense, expecting a blow.  Instead, he simply growled again, turning on his heels and sprinting down the road, disappearing into the steam from the manholes.

I leaned against the wall, my breath escaping in a weak, cracking sigh.  My limbs were still tense, my head cloudy and heavy.  I stumbled forward into the diner, dropping myself into the nearest free booth just as the tension was finally released, leaving me feeling like I was sinking into the floor.

The place was nearly empty; a crowd of young people were crowded into one of the back booths, and a few older men in construction gear were exchanging a blow-by-blow of last night’s football game with the fry cook.  The waitress appeared quickly, her forced smile turning sincere as she examined my presumably shocked expression.

“You alright, hon?  What can we getcha?”

I hadn’t even touched the menu, and food seemed an abysmal idea.  Mostly it was the bright lights of the diner and the buzz of the small crowd that made me want to stay.

“Hot tea?” I replied slowly.

“Anything to eat?” she asked, “Maybe some toast?  Or a bowl of oatmeal?”

“Toast, please,” I replied, feeling my stomach churn, half-hunger and half-panic.

“Sure thing,” she said, passing me another sympathetic glance as she wandered over to the teenagers on the other side of the room.

I stared out the window, my limbs falling numb.  The food appeared with another sympathetic look, and my gaze sunk into teacup, watching the milk swirl, and slowly unfocused, as I sunk into my thoughts.  Panic welled up, swirling inside of me, folding over self-doubt and regret,  filling my head with bizarre alternative scenarios.  

What if I could have gotten him to stay?  What if I could have built more of rapport with him?  What if he had turned violent?  What if he comes back?  Follows me home?  He clearly has access to city-wide information if he knows why I’m here.  What if he stalks me?  The police obviously aren’t going to intervene.

I forced air into my lungs, releasing it to a slow, easy count, feeling the thoughts slow.  I took another deep breath, letting it sink out of me, trying to clear my mind.  

“Hey, doc,” a voice said, shocking me out of my haze.  I glanced up to see Jack, leaning over his elbow on the edge of the booth.  He had been grinning, but the grin faded as he studied my expression.

I stared up at him, my brain still fuzzy.  I could feel the expression of panic that still lingered on my face, but I couldn’t will it to change.

“You’ve seen him, haven’t you,” he said seriously.

I gulped for air, choking back a panicked sob.  Nodding was the only response I could manage.

“I’m so sorry, Doc.  You gonna be okay?”

I nodded again, not sure it was true.  I struggled to express any kind of sound in response, but was cut off by the waitress.

“Hey, hon, you ordering anything?” she asked Jack, her tone edging on acute.

He glanced at the other side of booth, asking, “Do you mind?”

I nodded again, gesturing for him to sit.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger, medium, with fries, and a brown cow,” he said to the waitress, his gaze glancing briefly to her before settling again on me.

We sat in silence for a long moment.  Finally, he cracked a weak smile and asked, “So, how did it go?”

My sober expression cracked, as well.  I took several long breaths, forcing myself to count out the inhales and exhales as I felt my pulse normalize.

“Honestly?” I said slowly.  He nodded.  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of someone in my entire life.  I mean, I’ve worked with people who have committed some heinous crimes, or who’ve wanted to do truly horrible things, but I’ve never felt like this.  Just knowing who he is, what he can do, the kind of resources he has…”

My words trailed off, and I forced myself through several more rounds of deep breathing.

Jack’s food arrived, and the scent of cheese and charred meat stirred my appetite.  I coated the toast in butter and marmalade and tore off several large bites.

“It’s weird, but it’s kinda nice to hear you say that,” he said, breaking up the ice cream in his drink with the end of his straw.  “Not that I want him comin’ after you - truth be told, I still kinda wish you’d gotten outta town - but it’s just, having run into him so many times myself, I start to feel like I’m making it all up.  Like it’s not that bad, that he’s just a big chump and here’s me fallin’ for it.  It’s not like I ever thought I was the toughest guy around, but most the time, I think I’m okay, but the Bat, he’s just … he’s just fuckin’ scary.  Pardon my French.”

His gaze sunk back to the table with the last phrase.  I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the last of the cobwebs falling loose in my mind.

“No offense taken,” I replied, “Believe me, I’ve heard much worse.”

“Fair enough, doc.  But you know what I’m sayin’, right?  Sometimes it feels so ridiculous, this guy in a cape chasing me down the street, you know?”

I nodded, finishing off my toast and sipping the last of the tea.  The waitress sauntered over to refill the cup, and I stirred it idly, allowing the words to form.

“There’s a term for that, actually,” I said finally, allowing my clinical persona to fall into place, a safe and familiar shield of protection, “It’s called ‘gaslighting.’  It’s named for this old black-and-white movie called ‘The Gaslamps’ - it’s a really good film, actually, really creepy - but it’s about a women being driven mad, who keeps seeing the lamps in her house flicker and starts to think the place is haunted.  Every time it happens, she tries to get her husband to see it, and he just keeps telling her it’s her imagination, and after a while she starts to believe him.  Except really it’s him doing it, trying to make her crazy.”

“That’s how gaslighting works.  It’s a tool abusers use, to keep their victims confused and disoriented.  They deny their actions, or claim to remember an event entirely differently, so over time, their victims feel like, ‘well, maybe it’s me?  Maybe I am over-reacting.  Maybe it didn’t happen like that.’  I think Batman’s persona works the same way.  It’s so over the top - a man in a black cape - it should be ridiculous.  But then you remember who he really is, and how much power he wields, it’s not ridiculous at all.  It’s actually scary.”

“That trick, that gaslamp thing, reminds me of my old man,” Jack replied, pausing to finish off his burger.  “He’d come home one day like a mad dog, knock heads together, scream, shout in my face that I was no good, scream at my ma how he hated her.  And then the next day, the very next day… I remember once he came home with this big ol’ rack of ribs.  Said we were going to have a barbeque.  And my ma, she still even had a shiner on her, and she asked him what the occasion was, and you know what he said?  He said, ‘I gotta have a reason to do something for my family?  You think that’s the kind of man I am?’  I still remember it, to this day.  I can still hear his voice when he said it.”

I nodded, sipping on the tea.  “Yep, that’s gaslighting.  It’s terrifying because it’s so effective.  It makes you doubt everything about the person, everything you think about them, every time you’ve been angry with them or hated them or feared them.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, “That’s about the size of it.”

He swirled the last of the ice cream through his drink, leaving creamy white streaks across the glass.

“So, you still gonna stay?” he asked finally.

I took another long breath, and nodded.  “I think I have to.”

“Do you?  Can’t you just … do something else?  You were helping people in Metropolis, right?”

“Sure, but it doesn’t work like that, at least not to me.  Doctors have the Hippocratic oath, but for mental health and abuse, it’s different.  It doesn’t just hurt the person, it hurts the people around them.  It would be like if I found out he had a dangerous, contagious disease, and just walked away.  Now that I know about it, I have to do what I can to treat it.  I can’t just leave him and let him carry on hurting himself and others.”

“So that’s what you think this is?  Abuse?  Like what, you think he’s beating up women on the side?”

“I would guess that his behavior bleeds into his interpersonal relationships as Bruce, as well, yes.  But that’s not it, not entirely.  The way people behave here, the way they feel like they have to walk on eggshells and look over their shoulder, like he’s Judge and Jury, watching their every move - those are classic signs of abuse.  It’s as though he’s trapped the entire city.  Everyone here feels like they can’t do anything without checking with him, that they can’t do anything that might upset him.  That’s not healthy.  That’s not how anyone should have to live their life, let alone an entire town.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

I sighed again, shaking my head.  “I have no idea.  If this were just domestic abuse, I’d try to have him detained, and try to help his partner find outlets for their experience, to get the help they need, and hopefully to get away.  But I can’t put an entire town in witness protection.”

“Maybe we could change all the door signs?  Everyone trade street numbers with their neighbor?”

“I like that idea,” I replied with a grin.  “In the first instance, what I need is information.  There are lots of roots to mental illness, but no one this severe hasn’t had previous treatment.  I want to know more about how he became Batman.”

“That still sounds pretty dangerous.”

“Well, on the upside, I do work behind a giant metal gate.”

“There is that, yeah.”

I glanced down at the table, drinking the last of my tea.  The waitress had dropped off our bill somewhere in the midst of our discussion, and I finally reached out for it.

“I hope you know I’m not letting you pay for mine,” Jack said, pulling out his wallet.  “Wouldn’t feel right about it even if I hadn’t eaten twice as much as you.”

I grinned again, dropping a few bills on the table.  “Far be it from me to strain your honor.”

“Hey, a man’s gotta have something.”

I glanced up to meet his gaze again.  He blushed, his eyes dropping to the bills in his hands.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?” he asked, not glancing up.

“For helping me to get better,” I replied.  “It would have taken me a lot longer to recover from that experience if you hadn’t been here.”

“Oh, well,” he started, his eyes darting up to meet mine and dropping again, “You’re welcome.  No sweat.  I like spendin’ time with you, doc.”

“I like it, too.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked as we rose.

I paused, considering it.  He fidgeted in the pause, regret creeping over his expression.

“I’d appreciate that, yes,” I said finally.

We drifted down the street, falling silent as our steps echoed in a slow, easy gait.  From the outside, we could have passed for the quiet end to a first date, and not a slightly panicked criminal psychiatrist, walking home with a known criminal and possible target of a deranged vigilante.  It was a nice delusion, and I couldn’t help but consider it was one I hadn’t felt myself drifting into in quite some time.  Work had consumed me in Metropolis, and between my shift schedule and living on site, I rarely interacted with anyone but patients and colleagues.  For all of the strangeness of Gotham, I already had more non-work acquaintances than I had made in years at Metropolis.

“This is me,” I announced, glancing up at the building.

“Oh, okay,” Jack replied, obviously surprised that it was less than a block away.

“Thanks again.”

“Nothing to it,” he replied, flashing me a toothy grin.  He turned to go, and paused, turning back and saying, “If you want, I can give you my number.  In case you run into the Bat again, and you want some company.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” I replied.  He fumbled in his pockets, pulling out a pen and what appeared to be a gum wrapper and scribbling it down.

“Goodnight, doc,” he said, turning again and hurrying back down the street.

“Goodnight, Jack,” I replied.


End file.
